In the din of Casey's smoke melting with the moonlight peering through the tar-stained drapes, Joe is reminded of an over-dramatization of a war-ridden Middle Ages tale. He sits for a second, reminding himself of the tale and not concentrating on the watering of his eyes. Menthol just isn't his thing.
He chuckles, subtly, and commences speech.
"In light of speaking of past ignorance, had you ever heard about chemical warfare from the dark ages?"
"Not so much, I kind of just figured the plague hit...people died... end of story."
"Common misconception, love."
"Well, similar things happened with the Native Americans and something to do with small pox blankets and some shit, don't exactly remember what went down with that but something similar but drastically superceding in its brutality happened in the mid ages."
"You've got my attention."
"Well, as the stories go, during war times of the bubonic plague, or black death, or whatever you want to call it, as a form of chemical warfare they would throw plague ridden corpses over fences and walls as a means of infecting the people on the other side."
(Parker wakes) "Jesus, huh?"
(Parker nods back off)
"Anyway, I was reading some book a while back and it claims using references from old journals from the literates of the time that some of these so called 'corpses' actually weren't corpses at all."
"How do you mean?"
"Live people, love. Whithering, sickly, live people. Dying from the plague."
"A little, but let me get to the good shit. So anyways, some of these bodies they would throw to infect others were alive, brutal, much, disgusting, yes; one man, though, by some fucking miracle lived. Survived the impact, survived the disease, it was truly a marvel. So, obviously, he lived to tell the tale."
"And what did he have to say about the matter?"
"Well, aside from the psychological implications that were obviously posed after the incident, he decided that he could learn to write and be able to tell the tale about what happened to him."
"Does this story have a point?"
"Don't fucking worry, I'm getting to it."
"Blah fuckety blah."
"Woman! Let me speak!"
"Hah, I'm just playin. Continue, please."
"Finally. Anyway, by being the first individual to write about such a horrible matter, he spread awareness about what happened to him and about the evils of war in general. Not that everybody at the time was pro-war or anything, but the majority of intellectuals who were literate were those of established stature, therefore they were the people in charge of the fighting, the war, the barbaric violence and corpse throwing."
"Well how 'bout that."
"I know, right? An awful, terrible incident that supposedly happened to the kid led him off to write about it, to tell his tale, and to essentially be the first anti-war writer recorded."
"To be honest, I think the thing's balogna. But even so, it's a valid tale of something terrible morphing into something good and I think you should run with it."
"I'm not making it up, I promise!"
(Casey blows smoke into Joe's eyes)
"Ha ha, well although I enjoy this exchange of bullshit we should call it a night."
"Agreed. We've got a big day tomorrow."
"Yep. Fare thee well in sleep and slumber dear, and let tomorrow be a bold new day."